


Enduring

by Lockedaisical



Category: RWBY
Genre: Death, Family, Gen, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 02:43:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17051555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedaisical/pseuds/Lockedaisical
Summary: Ozpin has another voice in his head.





	1. 0.1 Let's just live

**Author's Note:**

> Going to be a talky fic, only one setting for the whole story. Little to no fighting. SI is definitely going to be a Sue of some kind, be highly emotional, and say stupid shit, do stupid shit. I’m not interested in concrit.
> 
> I should be doing a thousand more productive things, but this is the first time I’ve written in months and it was cathartic. Wondering if writing will help. I can’t believe I wrote 1k words of doing literally nothing though.

 

 

 _I’m dead. I’m dead I’m dead_. 

I curl into myself, a gnawing emptiness that seems to be a constant presence in my chest. It overwhelms me, making everything else seem trivial, making me unable to focus on anything else except this one, final thought. 

 _I’m really dead_. 

I woke up in a darkness that seemed impenetrable, without form yet without hope of ever escaping. I’m left here, alone, with no explanation, no other sign of life. I can do nothing, see nothing, only wait, with this throbbing, aching emptiness. 

I feel small, I feel like something’s missing. I hug myself and bury my face in my knees, unmoving. There isn’t any point of doing anything. 

 _I’m dead_. 

I truly am. I really, truly am. I remember dying, remember passing on, and now all that’s left is what I am here. 

Something passes over me, a tickle at the edge of my senses, but I don’t react, don’t seem to notice. I sit, making my presence smaller, and do nothing. 

There’s nothing left. 

 _I’m dead_. 

* * *

  
There’s no sense of time. Not when you’ve left your physical body, and with none of the survival requirements to fulfill. Not when you’re in shock, when you can’t bring yourself to stand up, move, complete any action and find out what the hell is happening. 

A voice, a presence stands before me, and it says it a gentle voice, “Hello.” 

I don’t look up, squeezing my eyes closed tighter in response. I don’t react, don’t want to react. 

I’m not ready. 

The presence waits patiently, but after a while, leaves as well. 

* * *

  
I’m lost in myself. I’m left drowning in my thoughts that choke up my throat and threaten to spill from my eyes. I could cry and cry forever, without the limitation of a human body. I could fall deeper and deeper into myself, my life that I’ve left behind, with nothing left to keep me anchored. 

I lose count how many times the presence passes over me. Approaches, to observe for a moment, before my lack of reaction dissuades it from coming closer. I barely consider it, caught up with the overwhelming loss that I feel, that I continue to feel without an end in sight. 

I mourn. I mourn for too many things at once, to consider what exactly it is that I’ve lost. It’s too much, and I don’t know what to do. 

The presence considers me, but I’m too uncollected to give it a second thought, to think of it as something comforting or as something to fear. 

Did it matter? 

Did I  _want_  it to matter? 

I’m not ready. 

* * *

  
A hand on my shoulder. 

I register it, at the back of my mind, but I’m too tangled in my thoughts, my reverie of a life lost too soon, that I can’t bring myself to either pull away or lean into it. 

I wasn’t ready to die. I’d accepted it, as something inevitable, but I wasn’t ready. 

They say you’re supposed to find peace after death. Maybe I might. It would come, eventually. 

All things come, eventually, when you have an eternity. 

A movement stirs me from my spiraling thoughts. The presence is sitting beside me, and I can almost feel the closeness, the physical nature of the gesture. It’s hand is warm across my shoulder, and it moves it’s fingers rub along the nape of my neck in circular, comforting motions. 

I’m able to focus on it, rather than the endless, inescapable thoughts about my death. For once, I think of something other than my lost life, my mourning. 

I’m brought back to the present. But there’s an emptiness, a paradoxical weight that sits in my chest, making it impossible to move. 

The presence waits beside me. It speaks, voice so soft and deep and gentle, “Take your time.” 

He waits with me for a while -- for it was a man’s voice, it registers now -- but eventually I feel him stand, and leave. 

Still not ready, not yet. 

* * *

  
He keeps returning. Like clockwork, and when I’m steady enough to think about it, I’m able to establish that he comes here every night, on the hour. 

It’s easier, to think now. Easier to let go, now that there’s something to cling on. 

When there’s nothing left to care of but the thoughts in your head, it’s easy to fall in so deeply you can never recover. Without a body that needs care, without friends to pull you out, you can lose yourself. Forever. 

Death is supposed to bring peace, in eternity. 

When the state of being becomes so constant, endless without change -- I supposed that can be counted as peace, too.

My head’s still not in a good place. It’s not perfect, but at the very least,  _something’s_  broken the cycle of my raging thoughts, something’s there to stir things up, a hint of chaos, that could possibly… 

Break me free. 

* * *

  
I open my eyes, for the first time in an eternity. The light blinds me immediately, but in this realm beyond what was physical, the ability to keep my eyes open lay in will, rather than bodily reflex. 

 **Stark whiteness**  fades away, into colour, into shapes. Things have changed, since my first arrival into total blackness. I’m inside a structure, a wooden house. The floorboards are worn but well kept, with lines and knots and lack of refinement that probably meant it was hand-made. 

I can’t bring myself to look upwards, look at more. I keep my eyes on the ground, lowered. I watch golden rays of sunlight fall on the floor, lighting up motes of dust that lazily float in the air. They have no direction, the air being so very still, quiet. Yet they do move ever so slightly, and I can watch some pass out of the rays and become invisible, just as I watch new ones enter. 

Time seems to pass. The rays gradually dim, fading to orange, to red. Soon, the light that shines through the window is of the silver moonlight. 

I bring myself to look upwards, out the window. My eyes trail over the individual logs that make up the walls of this abode, the stripped wood forming the windowsill, the four panes of glass arranged in a square. It’s a monumental task, and when I see what laid beyond, I can only stare. 

A shattered, broken moon greets me in the dark blue sky. 

I close my eyes again, but a different, new feeling stirs up within me. 

* * *

Soon after, footsteps approach. 

I’m lucid enough to consider them, to listen to each step as they grow louder, closer. Two steady steps up a stone paved path, then a third, firm clack, as if they were using a cane. 

I blink to myself; still raw, still new. Sensations are still strange and the aching is still constant, but bearable, with other things to focus on. 

But I think I’m ready. 

The door to this little, wooden house opens on unoiled hinges, and I see a pair of legs, clad in pressed slacks and leather shoes. A walking cane follows, before being picked up, as he takes some hesitant, cautious steps into the house. 

My eyes are kept lowered. The figure approaches me, small, so very quiet steps as he comes closer, stopping just outside my personal space before crouching down. 

I think I’ve grieved enough. 

I look up, and see a shock of silver hair and the most  _old_ , soulful eyes I’ve ever seen. 

He smiles at me, almost sadly. 

“Hello.”

 

 


	2. 0.2 Let's just live

Talking has always been difficult for me. Not necessarily in the physical sense (though that became true, later on) -- it’s just… always been difficult, for me to be open, for me to put what I’m thinking into words.

 

I’m glad he picks up on that, and he speaks first. 

 

“I have to say,” he starts, his tenor voice kept low and gentle. He speaks with clarity, with purpose, but plenty of consideration -- of which I am grateful for. “I was surprised to find another being here.” 

 

But he tilts his head, lips curving wryly. “Well, perhaps the phrasing of that could be more precise.” He moves to sit down, cross-legged, on the wooden floor in front of me.

 

I find myself still averting his gaze, still looking downwards. As his visage lowers into my field of view, I notice him wait patiently for me to meet his eyes again, before continuing, addressing me directly. 

 

“My name is Ozpin,” he says. A slight pause, thoughts turning behind his tinted spectacles. “This is my mindscape.” 

 

There’s experience with the way he deliberately chooses his words. Understanding. 

 

He doesn’t put me on the spot, asking for my name, but the opening hangs in the air nonetheless.

 

“...I’m Ash,” I say. I hide a wince at the sound of my voice. It turned out flatter than I intended it to be, and the sound is harsh against my ears. “I don’t… I don’t know what I’m doing here, in your mindscape.” 

 

“Hmm.” His voice is deep enough that the humm he makes seems to flutter, rather than sound grating. “We do have quite a predicament on our hands, then.” 

 

I don’t really have a response for that. He doesn’t seem to, either, and the conversation falls into a lull. 

 

I bring myself to look up again, around the room. A simple, wooden cabin. Mild candles along the edge of the room provide light to see. Things are neat, but not too orderly to look unnaturally clean. We sit beside a made bed, layered in blankets and a hand-sewn quilt. A kitchen in the corner of the room houses the staple facilities, along with a tea set upon the countertop, wisps of steam emerging from the kettle. 

 

Dashes of colour catch my eye to break up the monotonous brown of the wood. The purple patches of the quilt, the porcelain tea set, the red and green of blooming flowers on the windowsill. 

 

My eyes fall on the shattered moon outside the window. 

“I understand… that things are difficult and confusing,” Ozpin says. He shifted slightly at the edge of my vision before beginning, so as to not startle me by speaking suddenly. On one hand, I acknowledge the fact that he’s treating me like a frightened beast, but on the other, I appreciate it greatly. 

 

“I can’t say that I know  _ why _ we’re in this situation. Did you… did you  _ meet _ with anyone? Before arriving here?” 

 

I shake my head in the negative, not looking his way. I know what he means. 

 

“Ah.” His cane is in its retracted state, sitting in his lap. His fingers tap the ends of it as he thinks. 

 

“Admittedly… I am unsure it is safe for you, to stay here.” An emotion jumps in my chest, part fear and unease. He falters at my reaction. 

 

“I’ve passed on,” I say to him, anxiety colouring my words. “I’ve already passed on.  _ This _ is my afterlife.” 

 

His face closes off. That tightens my chest and clogs my throat better than anything he’s said so far. He extends his cane, and uses it to push himself to his feet, beginning to pace. 

 

As he completes one circuit, my gaze trailing his path, he turns to face me once more. “This seems to be a mistake,” he says, before his eyes dart to the side, deep in thought. “Perhaps, we should find a way to send you off, guide your soul onto the right path…” But it’s obvious that he has little grasp on the situation.

 

“...Is this what is supposed to happen? Dying, and then waking up?” I ask, though I honestly don’t expect an answer. He pins me with an unreadable look. Stops his pacing, sighs. 

 

“No, that’s… that  _ shouldn’t _ be the case.” 

“B-But -- “ I find myself jumping to my feet walking over. “You understand, right?” I’m close enough now to reach out, take his hand in mine, a slight desperation at the thought of him making me  _ leave _ . “You  _ understand _ ,” I repeat, and this time, I see his eyes widen in realisation. 

 

He pulls his hand away as if burned, but there’s something that’s been ignited inside of me.  “Maybe -- maybe I’m  _ supposed _ to be here? Maybe this  _ isn’t _ a mistake, it  _ can’t _ be -- “  _ Please don’t make me go back to that darkness. Please don’t make me go through that again _ . “Maybe I can -- I can  _ help _ .” 

 

Ozpin regards me in a different light, now. There’s confusion, wariness,  _ horror _ in his wide eyed gaze. It doesn’t change things. 

 

I knew it since I saw that shattered moon with my own eyes. A slow, dawning realisation, that crept up without fanfare. Evidence mounting, until it overwhelmed the unbelievable circumstances. 

 

_ Facts _ that could were somehow, for some reason  _ true _ in this existence, despite the absurdity of it all. 

 

Ozpin was Ozma, the hero that was fated to reincarnate until he succeeded in an impossible task. 

 

Ozpin hasn’t died yet. 

 

...This was my afterlife. 

 

His mouth is slightly agape, trying to form words but failing. A flash of  _ pain _ in his eyes, and he tears our gazes apart. 

 

My heart’s in my throat. 

 

“...How much do you know?” He asks, finally. 

 

I think back to happy, exciting times, with a singular point of interest that somehow connected my best friends. Endless chatter and intimacy discussing a  _ story _ that has held such a near and dear place in my heart for the final years of my life. 

 

“...a lot,” I answer, bringing a hand up to my cheek. “A lot.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like fics where the SI knows what’s going to happen and completely changes the course of things.. Know that can be off putting to most. The overdramatics too. Advance warning, anyways.


End file.
